swinging

There is nothing interconnected about hope.

We hang on its tendrils,

Gasping erratically when the air comes,

Savoring those moments as if they will last.

How soon we forget, both

that hope always leaves

And comes back.

Swinging, not quite as steady as

a pendulum or rhythmic as a scythe,

But back and forth just the same.

Hold onto hope?

We can’t.

It does not fit our meaty, clamoring grasp.

Instead, be content to feel it when it comes.

Breathe it in.

Drink it down.

Let it remind you of your wholeness.

It stays long enough for us to remember,

if only we clench our fists and try.

Hope is not interconnected —

But we don’t need it to be, really.